Depths of Fear

Peter was checking his investments.

He always found that checking his investments to be a very pleasing occupation, but his inspection on the first Friday of each month was especially enjoyable. Friday was property day, and on the afternoon of the first Friday each month he checked the house at no.26, .. well, the street name's not important.

No. 26 was a rambling old Victorian house Peter had purchased and converted cheaply to flats for letting. They were a bit down market, let mainly to students and other transients who in Peter's eyes were an amorphous mass of rental stream, flowing through his ledgers: and on Fridays he checked the property, recording in his little book the complete absence of any problem or defect that would excuse anyone withholding rent.

Of course, short of the roof blowing off in the night, Peter would never record any defect and could have maintained a record of equal veracity without ever setting foot in the place, but when his visual inspection was complete, including counting the empty milk bottles in case they provided evidence of impecunious students squeezing in an extra bed, he could get down to the real business of the day.

Like a great many Victorian houses, no.26 had a cellar. A particularly fine cellar running under most of the house. Peter was greatly irked by his failure to secure permission to convert it more letting space, but still, he made what use of it that he could. On Friday afternoons, once a month.

Peter locked the cellar door carefully behind him and walked over to the old metal cupboard that stood in one corner. He relished the anticipatory moment before unlocking it to reveal a fine collection of equipment and accessories such as would gladden the heart of any bondage enthusiast. Today he would...yes..the..and perhaps.. Ideal.

Another locked cupboard opened to reveal a range of useful bits and pieces, including the roll of matting which Peter spread out carefully on the floor. He undressed slowly, depositing each item folded neatly onto a space the top shelf of the cupboard. Only when he was quite naked did he unzip the small holdall he had brought with him and withdraw its contents.

He sat down on an old high backed kitchen chair and broke the seal on a pair of sheer black stockings. He savoured the smell of the fresh nylon for a moment before drawing them up his legs, quivering with delight at their fine touch. Next he slipped on a pair of black high heels and stood up carefully, relishing the tension in his calves and thighs as he found his balance.

Bending carefully at the knee he reached down and picked up a black, lace trimmed corset. He wrapped it carefully around him and squeezed the front fastenings home, grunting slightly with the effort, - he must have put on a little weight since the back lacing was last adjusted. Suspenders were not necessary with the grip top stockings: but they were highly desirable and soon his fumbling fingers had them clipped on.

Peter paraded sensuously around the cellar revelling in the feel of the cool air through the stockings, the touch and sound of his nylon clad legs brushing against each other, and the sharp click of his heels against the cold flagstone floor. He ran his hands over his tight corset, rediscovering his long departed waist and feeling..lace..satin..suspenders..being at once the toucher and the touched.

He felt his excitement building and with an effort brought himself back into the present reality before matters came to an unnecessarily early end. With the slow precision of movement dictated by his corset and high heels he moved three stout wooden boxes into the middle of the cellar floor, forming a U shaped platform underneath a heavy beam which crossed the room. Selecting a box from the first cupboard, he prepared for the next phase...

The steel shackles jingled coldly as he closed them around his ankles and snapped a padlock on to each one. The shiny stainless steel contrasted pleasingly with the dark stockings and he stretched out his legs to admire the look and feel. Next came a pair of elbow length gloves of fine black leather, pulled up tautly. He stroked his face, enjoying the touch and the musky smell of the leather.

He stood up, picked up the chair and walked over to the array of boxes, employing a wide legged gait to stop his ankle chain trailing on the floor. Commonsense caution prompted him to slip off his shoes before stepping up onto the chair, a feat possible only by using a crossbar between the legs as an intermediate step due to the chain between his ankle shackles. Once on the chair he clicked a snap shackle with a short length of chain attached to it to a stout ringbolt screwed into the beam. Dismounting with the same care, he returned the chair to its place and removed the final two items from his box of goodies.

In contrast to the shiny ankle shackles, the handcuffs were dull grey steel. Old. Possibly as old as the house: made when strength meant weight, not fancy alloys. They fitted snugly around his leather clad wrists. He methodically screwed home the bolt on each shackle and put the key in the box. His arms could now move only as one and he swung them and tugged at the cuffs, enjoying the restraining feel of the three pounds of steel around his wrists. He walked around the cellar slowly, the click of his heels now mixing with the jingle and scrape of his ankle chain dragging.

Finally he stood before his little box stage, ready for the finale. He stepped carefully up onto the middle box and, with difficulty, pulled on a leather half hood. It took another minutes fumbling to do up the buckle at the back and pull the laces reasonably tight, reducing his vision to small patches of light leaking in either side of his nose. Encased in his tight leather world, he felt a surge of excitement and clutched convulsively at his rigid organ. The touch of warm leather and cold steel made him moan with delight.

With great care he reached up and felt around blindly until he encountered the dangling chain. Holding it in one hand he pushed the connecting links of the handcuffs through the snap shackle on the free end of the chain. A tug to check all was secure and he stepped off the platform.

The tension travelled up his body in waves: he pointed his toes and stretched, and they swayed three inches clear of the floor. He spread his finger wide: every muscle in his body taut. The sensations enfolded him, blotting out everything, until the growing pain in his wrists obliged him to take some of the weight off them by holding on to the supporting chain. He reassured himself that the surrounding boxes were still in step-back range and then began to twist, wriggle and moan in thrall to the dark mistress of his mind.

Then he heard the sound of a key in the door.

With sounds muffled by the discipline helmet he was sure he must be mistaken, even as he froze. But there was no mistaking the slight scrape the door made as it caught an uneven flagstone and the jolt of adrenalin hitting home tied his stomach in knots and shrank his near climatic organ to a gristly residue of its former self

Peter's imitation of a stalactite ended abruptly as he scrabbled desperately to regain his foothold on the boxes, but in his haste all he did was catch his heel and push one of the boxes away slightly. Even as he regained his control and began to lever himself back up there was the sound of rapid footsteps followed by a lurch as the box was kicked away from under him again. He kicked out in all directions, but encountered nothing but thin air. He heard the door slam and the key turn and his breath came in short panicky gasps.

A minute passed and his gasps were close to becoming sobs when a sound from by the door made him realise that it had been locked from the inside. As he fought to regain control of his breathing he heard footsteps cross towards his cupboards, but nothing crossed his tiny field of vision. He heard the sounds of someone looking through the bags and boxes on the shelves.

"Come on, leave those things alone and push one of those boxes back here." He tried to sound firm but it came out more squeaky than commanding. There was no sign that the intruder had taken any notice, so he tried again.

"This part is private, you know. You shouldn't be down here. Now help me down before.." He wanted to say that someone would be coming back at any moment, so that the mystery intruder had better leave quickly: but he had begun to speak before he'd thought it through. "..before my friend comes back" he finished, unconvincingly.

Still no reaction. He began to bluster: then plead. Only when he began swearing at the unknown interloper was there a reaction. Footsteps approached and he caught the barest glimpse of a patterned skirt before he was grabbed by the balls. He was pushed, and then pulled, twisted round and shaken by his wedding tackle until his eyes watered. A finger was placed across his lips - it reeked of latex: she must have taken a pair of his surgical rubber gloves - and she gave his balls a warning squeeze. He got the message.

He heard the sound of a chair being dragged towards him and for the first time caught a drift of her perfume, sweet and vanilla as she stood on it beside him and fiddled at his handcuffs. Then a welcome relief as she stepped down and pushed forward one of the boxes for him to stand on.

As soon as the weight was off his wrists he grabbed the snap shackle holding the handcuffs to hanging chain, only to find that a padlock and loop of chain now attached the cuffs to the ringbolt as well. He heard more scraping and down by his feet he saw the other two boxes appear, one being stacked on the other. He stepped up, striking his head on the beam, but able now to lower his wrists sufficiently to restore the circulation. He heard the sound of the first box being removed and got the awful feeling of being led helplessly where she wanted him to go.

"Come on, this isn't funny you know. Let me down"

Another long silence, and then she finally spoke, her voice slightly muffled by the leather hood.

"If you hadn't been such a stingy sod and got a plumber to repair that constantly running overflow pipe, I wouldn't have had to call the water board to fix it. The stopcock's down here, you know, so they have a key. So now I do as well."

This mental intrusion of the outside world made him forget his predicament for a moment, and he scowled. He became even more annoyed when she added conversationally "I said I was your secretary. They'll be sending you the bill."

"I'll add that to you next rent demand, you riiiiiiiiiiiiiii......"

His complaint tailed off in a yell as she kicked the boxes from under his feet.

"Not a very *clever* attitude to take, given your present circumstances, is it?"

Peter could do no more than moan at the pain in his wrists and arms.

She came close and murmured in his ear, barely audible through the hood, "I think you need a little pain, don't you?"

Her hands stroked the inside of his thighs and feeling her breath on the back of his neck he realised with start how tall she was. He dangled several inches from the floor while she could still look over his shoulder.

She continued to stroke him, her warm breath flowed in waves over him and her scent pervaded the close air in the cellar. Despite the strain in his arms he began to grow erect again.

"Gooooooooooood boy," she whispered, stroking and teasing him into life.

He felt her fingers crook into the laces of his corset, hanging slack from the stretch of his body. She drew them tighter. And tighter. His breath became shallower as the squeezing became a crushing.

"Breathe slowly: breathe deep." Her words flowed, warm and sensuous as the breath itself. "Stay with it...this is real.."

Her foot planted itself in the small of his back and the corset crushed him like a vice. She quickly knotted the laces before his urgent need to take a breath forced the lacing open again. He panted shallowly, feeling slightly faint, but still rampant as the constriction engorged his loins.

"Comfy, sweetheart?" she breathed, so close he could feel the heat of her body. He sweated under the helmet as her cool hands worked on him. He twitched on his chain pressing his thighs together as deep down his climax began to built.

"Pain before pleasure, darling...."

She stepped away from him and the slight hiss and stirring in the air was no warning of the fire that seared across his buttocks. He yelled. And again. And again. She worked the strap methodically over his rear while he kicked and screamed and sobbed. Each sullen crack of the strap accompanied by a cry of pain, each adding to the jerky pendulum swing of his body.

The fires continued to burn long after the blows ceased and the chain between his ankles jingled and involuntary tremors ran down his legs.

"Too much noise, dear boy. Look what I've got for you."

She was standing in front of him, pressing something under his nose so it was in his line of sight. Through a blur of sweat and tears he could see the gag and harness. "Now open your mouth and let me put this in".

He shook his head and moaned, "No, enough, I can't take it: let me down".

Her hand closed around his balls...and then moved to the matted curls of his pubic hair. She locked her fingers in it and pulled. And twisted...and yanked...and jerked and swung him around. And silenced his further bout of screams with an insistent and progressive squeezing of his testicles. "Now open your mouth and keep it open, or.."

He opened, panting like a dog at the pain and the pressure. She popped the gag into his mouth.

"Hold it there, I don't want you dropping it".

His mouth closed on the rubber moulding. She twisted his nipples experimentally. He moaned and bit down harder. She strapped on the leather head harness and kissed him lightly on the cheek "Good, gooood, boy".

He felt the sac around the moulded rubber core begin to inflate and he moaned weakly. As his mouth was stretched to the limit allowed by the head harness the inflation forced its way into his cheeks, swelling and grotesquely distorting them. Her hands gently stroked his swollen cheeks, "Are we quiet now?"

She delicately crushed his nipples between finger and thumb, twisting them round until he felt the flesh would burst open. He screamed in silence and howled in his heart.

She returned to soothing the pain in his crutch. Ease and soothe, stroke and caress: the pain was displaced. Again she whispered to him, so close, so loving, so intimate "I'm going to whip the inside of your thighs, darling: an orgy of pain, just for you. " Her hand closed on him. Unless you try to struggle when I fit you with the spreader bar, in which case I'll whip *these*."

The insistent squeeze left him in no doubt of the alternative target and he hung limp and compliant as she unlocked his ankle chain and pulled his legs to the limit of the bar.

His orgy of pain was served up one choice morsel at a time. Each stroke moving in a precisely regimented march across his flesh, visiting first one side, then the other. The hiss of the of the approaching blow. The dull slap of the impact. The click of her heels as she positioned herself for the next stroke. And all the while the murmuring voice....here's another...shall I change sides..goooood boy..... And the sound of her breathing growing heavier and more ragged.

The blows stopped abruptly in a low sound not from the silent, bruised hanging figure. Long silent minutes passed and he felt the spreader bar being unclipped and a box being pushed under his feet.

His body refused to let him lower his arms and the chain hung loosely. She released the padlock and unclipped the snap shackle. He staggered down onto the floor and slowly collapsed. He felt her unscrew the handcuff bolts: the gag deflated. His mouth was thick and choked with saliva. He gathered his breath to speak.

He heard her footsteps slowly sauntering away. By the time his numb fingers had undone the head harness and freed himself from the hood she was gone. No trace of her presence but for a discarded pair of latex gloves and an aromatic damp patch on the floor. And the message in lipstick on the cupboard door mirror: FRIDAY WEEK. SAME TIME. BE PREPARED.....


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